


kingdom come

by DREAMWRLD



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Prince Lee Taeyong, Prince Mark Lee (NCT), Royalty, Slow Burn, Too Many Taylor Swift References, read at your own discretion LOL, will tag as i go lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26782252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DREAMWRLD/pseuds/DREAMWRLD
Summary: in which mark lee bears the burden of being next in line to rule when all he really wants is a nap. throw in a brother who hates his guts, a thief who might just be a sorcerer, and a kingdom at war with itself ... and mark is really going to need that nap.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	kingdom come

**Author's Note:**

> hi! welcome to my long awaited royalty fic! i must admit that this first chapter is quite boring and slow, but hopefully you find it somewhat interesting and anticipate what is to come! i have big plans for this one hehe ^___^

Mark Lee hates marble—and god is it everywhere.

From the floor he walks on to the throne he sits upon, everything around him seems to be made of marble. He understands. It’s beautiful to look at, a sleek white stone with swirling colours mixed into it, and it’s a blunt way to show wealth and notoriety. 

It’s also incredibly fucking uncomfortable. 

Ever since he was a child, he’s never been able to sit still atop the marble seat designated to him in the large throne room. As mentioned, marble is beautiful and a prince’s throne is no exception, but sitting atop solid stone while a castle official drones on and on about something Mark couldn’t care less about makes for a very uncomfortable chunk of time in which he wiggles around in his nicest robes, trying to find relief for his sore ass. 

When he was younger, he was rarely scolded because his father seemed to understand that children are hard to keep focused under normal circumstances, let alone during a meeting that definitely does not need to involve a small child—no matter his royal status. The man would glance to his right, where Mark’s always well-behaved brother would sit with his head high and eyes focused ahead of himself, before glancing down at Mark, who shifted and bounced as his crown slipped down over his eyes. 

He would reach out a large hand and ruffle his hair before placing the crown back atop his head, offering a gentle smile to the young prince before focusing himself again. Mark would try and do the same because even a small look from his father would bring him comfort that the throne stole, but he would always end up sitting on his knees with his head resting against the arm of his father’s throne, the king’s hand gently sliding up and down his back as he spoke to castle officials about things Mark never understood.

Then the meeting would end and his father would hoist him off of the throne and set him on the marble floor, and he would crouch down to his level before adjusting his robes. 

“You did a great job today, little prince.” He would say softly and then smooth a calloused thumb over Mark’s round cheek. “Keep it up, and you’ll get to sit on the nicest throne in all the land.” 

He meant, of course, his own throne, which he sat atop with great pride (and a lush cushion beneath him). At the time, Mark would bounce on his heels excitedly and proclaim that he would be the best king the world had ever seen. 

As he stands in front of the throne now, which has sat empty for weeks, the prospect of anyone but his father being there feels sickeningly wrong. 

The only difference with this meeting is the lack of a king. Mark, no longer a child, still can’t remain still as the messenger delivers news from the kingdom. His feet are sore from standing, his robes are too heavy and warm, and there’s no comforting presence beside him to ground him.

Instead, there’s an elbow jutting into his ribs. 

A sharp bone hits his side and he grunts, glancing over at the boy beside him who stands straight and keeps his eyes fixated on the messenger and noblemen before them. Taeyong wears a matching set of purple robes that hang perfectly from his broad shoulders, and if Mark didn’t know any better he would assume he was the king. 

He barely glances over as he mutters under his breath “Quit fidgeting.” 

Mark glares despite the boy not giving him any visual attention, before rooting his feet in place and clenching his fingers into tight fists at his sides. He hates being scolded by his brother for something so silly. It’s not like he hasn’t been paying attention to the message, because he’s heard every single word about the local baker having his bread stolen, and the thief being caught with a bag full in the poorest area of the kingdom. 

Mark pays attention, he just can’t fucking stay still. 

“Has the thief been apprehended?” His brother asks, and Mark allows himself to shift his weight.

“Yes, your majesty. He’s in our custody, and ready to be presented for punishment.” 

Mark knows what’s coming next. The messenger steps back and nods to a guard, who makes his way across the room to step out into the hall. The large doors barely shut before they’re opening wide again and a pair of guards are stepping inside with a clearly agitated young man in their hold. 

Johnny and Jaehyun are strong—it’s why the king appointed them their positions—but the boy between them with his hands secured behind his back and one arm in each guard’s grip puts up a hell of a fight. 

He’s more so dragged across the floor than led, his body thrashing around and causing messy hair to topple into his face as he mumbles out curses to the guards who only hold onto him tighter as they approach the marble steps. 

Upon reaching where Mark and his brother stand, they push the thief down to his knees and hold him in place, a hand on each shoulder, and Mark steps forward.

“You again.” He says with a sigh, and the head of the boy lifts quickly to reveal round brown eyes and tanned skin, lips curled back into a snarl. Upon locking eyes with Mark, they form a childish grin. 

“Afternoon, your majesty.” 

Mark would know that face anywhere. He thinks he’s seen it far too many times to ever forget it. 

“Lee Donghyuck,” He starts with a sigh, his head shaking slowly. “Seems you’ve gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble. Again.” 

The boy smiles sheepishly, a scar on his cheek stretching with it. “Seems I have, your majesty.”

“Must we do this so often?” Mark rolls his eyes before waving to Johnny. “Prison chambers for two months.” 

”Two months?” Donghyuck spits out, his expression turning back into one of anger as he scrunches up his nose and glares up at Mark as if he’s the devil himself. “For three loaves of fucking bread?” 

Mark watches as the hand on his shoulder belonging to Jaehyun grabs ahold of his chin, jerking his head up to look him in his eyes. 

“Don’t speak to the prince like that, or your sentence gets lengthened. You should know the damn drill by now.” 

His face is freed and he immediately goes back to shooting daggers with his eyes—a sight Mark is most familiar with. 

The first time Lee Donghyuck was brought through the castle doors, Mark was 13. The boy wasn’t much younger than him but was far less clean, his freckled face round and smudged with dirt. He knelt on the floor just the same, his hair an unruly mess of deep brown curls atop his head, and the king was informed that he had tried to steal a basket of peaches from a local farm girl. 

His sentence was light, and Mark remembers it word for word. 

His father had said, hand on Mark’s back, “You will help the guards clean the prison chambers. There you will learn that if you don’t make better choices now, that will be your new home.” 

Terrified, Lee Donghyuck nodded and was whisked away. 

After that, Mark saw him routinely. He didn’t get caught often, but there were always reports of theft from local shops, and every other month Donghyuck was found out and given another slap on the wrist penalty. It was all petty crime, his father had said. Nothing major—at least until he was 17. 

Mark woke one morning to find a meeting in place without him. He had ventured to the throne room on the cold marble floors and peered inside, finding his father stood before the throne with a bruised and bloodied teenage boy in front of him with no guards at his side. 

The king clutched a necklace in his hand, which he held up in front of the boy as he spoke in his normal, soft tone. 

“What were you planning on doing with this?” 

Donghyuck’s voice shook so much that it made Mark feel ill. “I just wanted to sell it, sir. I needed to.” 

He couldn’t even imagine being in such a position, knelt in front of the most powerful person in the entire kingdom, entirely blind about your fate. Mark knows his father, and therefore he knows that despite what crimes you may have committed, you will always be safe in his presence. But Donghyuck doesn’t, and Mark could assume that ideas of imprisonment, perhaps even execution must have been bouncing around in his head. 

After all, he had just stolen what was most likely a family heirloom from a very important, very high born woman. Mark was even curious as to what his sentence would be as he eavesdropped. 

He watched in utter disbelief as his father knelt down and reached behind the boy, freeing his hands from their constraints. He pulled one forward and dropped the incredibly expensive-looking necklace into his palm, before curling his fingers around it. 

“Keep it safe. You’ll be in the chambers for two months.” 

“Your majesty—”

“Next time, be wise.” He placed both of his hands on Donghyuck’s cheeks, which were more sunken than Mark had previously known them to be, and swept his thumbs under teary eyes. “Don’t steal from a noblewoman. They tend to have guards.”

Mark, familiar with his father’s gentle touch, remembers feeling pitiful for the young village boy who simply bowed his head and nodded, both hands still wrapped around the necklace. Mark remembers him looking small and scared. 

Nothing resembling the way he looks now. 

With sharper features and about four more inches of height, Lee Donghyuck’s face remains screwed up in anger as he’s yanked to his feet, dirty brown ringlets of hair toppling into his eyes as his boots plant on the marble tiles. 

They leave mud in their wake, and Donghyuck glances down at the floor before he promptly spits on the steps below Mark and his brother, earning him a swift slap to the back of his head from Johnny. He doesn’t even flinch, nor does Mark, who simply stares down at the mess on the tiles with a sigh. 

“Better clean that up.” Donghyuck sneers before he’s forcefully steered toward the door by Johnny and Jaehyun. 

“Be wise.” Mark echoes his father as he watches the boy struggle to the door, a hurricane of sweat, dirt, and fiery temper. “And take a damn bath.” 

As soon as the doors to the throne room shut heavily, Mark lets out a sigh and slumps his shoulders, immediately reaching up to unclasp his robe. Taeyong tsks from beside him, his posture straight and his forehead dry opposed to Mark’s, whose face began to drip with sweat from the weight of his clothes and his crown. He looks disappointed, and the fact that he resembles their father so much makes Mark feel small. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” He mutters, stepping away from the marble stairs where dirt and spit lay in Lee Donghyuck’s wake and trudges toward the door that leads to a hallway. 

“You handle that criminal well,” Taeyong says from behind him, his voice smooth and low, and Mark stops in his tracks for a moment. 

He glances over his shoulder to find him watching with a deep gaze, his brows lowered and his lips nowhere near a smile. He always looks so serious and so intimidating that Mark tends to avoid his eyes to spare himself the fear.

“I do my best.” He says simply, earning a nod before he turns back around and steps out of the room, not in the mood to wait for a no doubt snarky remark to come next. A compliment from Taeyong is incredibly rare and usually needs to be balanced by a backhanded comment on his other techniques as a prince.

Mark knows he’s nothing like their father, and he doesn’t need to hear it from Taeyong. 

The hallway is empty as he steps into it, but he can hear the distant and muffled voice of a certain thief as he shouts and curses on his way to the dungeon. With a roll of his eyes, Mark turns and heads for the sleeping chambers, his shoes echoing on the marble floor as he gets further and further from the other sounds in the castle. 

It’s rarely noisy anymore, both Mark and Taeyong being quiet, brooding types opposed to the bright and ebullient leaders their parents were. 

When their mother was around, the castle always felt so full of life. She was the happiest and kindest woman Mark knew—not just because he was biased by blood. She woke every morning and sang as she roamed the halls on her way to the dining room, waking Mark and Taeyong in the most pleasant way. She swept past their bedrooms, a flurry of lace and fur as her night robes trailed behind her. 

She would carry Mark around on her back when she would go to check on every member of the castle staff, not caring about the wrinkles it left on her gown or the soreness her back must have felt. Mark remembers feeling like he was on top of the world as his little arms looped around her neck and his chin landed on her shoulder, and he got to watch the way the woman would personally greet everybody in the castle and ensure they were doing well before starting their day.

She would host grand dinners for everyone, and the castle would be filled with light and music and laughter. Mark would be sent off to bed after eating, leaving the adults to themselves, but he could always make out the sound of his mother’s laughter echoing through the halls. 

His father said she was an angel on earth, as he cheerfully went along with everything she did, nothing but love in his eyes and a smile on his face whenever she was around. 

When she left them, he told Mark that heaven wanted their favourite angel back. That God needed her more than they did, and of course, she would do anything to help anyone. 

Mark still thinks it’s a load of shit because not a day has gone by where he hasn’t needed his mother. Where he hasn’t waited for her voice in the halls, or her hand to ruffle his hair. Where he hasn’t laid in bed and silently hoped that she would slip in and say goodnight before pressing a kiss to his head and singing him a lullaby. 

For 13 years, not a day has passed where Mark hasn’t ached for just one hug. 

He doesn’t realize he’s standing outside of his bedroom door until a woman’s face is in front of him and pulling him back to reality. Unfortunately, it’s not his mother, but the touch on his hand that grips his discarded robe is just as gentle. 

“Is everything alright, your majesty?” 

“Fine, Wendy.” Mark lets out a sigh before pushing open his door and stepping inside. 

She follows behind, rag over her shoulder and a basket of fresh laundry under her arm, and her eyes follow Mark until he’s tossing the robe on the bed before dropping onto it heavily. 

“You don’t look fine.” She states before pulling open the doors to Mark’s wardrobe, revealing a plethora of dress shirts that Mark despises wearing. “You had that terrible look on your face that you get whenever you’re unhappy.”

“What’s so terrible about my face?” Mark shoots back as she’s pulling out a white shirt and neatly hanging it amongst the rest.

“It purses up as if you’ve just eaten a lemon.” 

Mark scoffs before flopping onto his back, the curtains hanging above his bed tucked neatly to each side—not the way he left them when he woke for the meeting earlier in the morning. 

“Lee Donghyuck was back today.” He announces, earning a groan from the woman as she continues her hanging of clothes.

“The village thief who’s always dirty?” 

“That’s him.” Mark huffs out, rolling his eyes at the thought of Donghyuck, likely still putting up a fight on his way to his cell. “He had stolen four loaves of bread.” 

“And what was the sentence for this grand theft?” Wendy teases, glancing over her shoulder with a sly smile on her face.

Mark has always found Wendy to be quite pretty. She was a common face around the castle when he was growing up, her mother being his mother’s chambermaid. Being a few years older than Mark, he was always too shy to say anything more than formal greetings, let alone ask if she wanted to play with his toy soldiers in the backyard. But as they grew older the awkwardness dissipated as Mark grew into his lanky limbs and she found herself a job as his maid. 

Except he never treated her as such—more as a friend. A person he could trust, and honestly, a person he could share castle gossip with. 

Right now, with her short brown hair pulled back by a scarf, bangs tickling wide eyes and framing her soft cheeks, he feels a sense of familiarity and nostalgia that he was craving. 

“Two months.” He tells her, tearing his eyes away as she gasps.

“Two months?” She exclaims in bewilderment. “For bread?” 

“Wendy, if he keeps getting away with petty crime, he’ll never stop.”

“Did you discuss it with your father?” She asks, and though he knows it wasn’t her intention, Mark feels a pang of hurt at the mention of his father.

“No,” He says reluctantly, images of pale skin and sunken eyes flashing in his mind. “He wasn’t well this morning. I didn’t want to bother.” 

“Well, if he trusts you to make the decisions around here, you probably made the right one today.”

“That’s what I like to tell myself.” 

Mark listens as the basket is picked up off the ground and the clicking of shoes makes its way to the bed. Wide brown eyes stare down at him before Wendy is huffing out a breath and hooking delicate fingers around his arm. Confused, Mark doesn’t fight as she pulls him up so he’s sitting, before picking the discarded robe off the neatly made bed.

“You really should be more careful with this.” She tsks, draping it over her arm with a shake of her head. 

“I’d rather just go back to bed.” Mark groans, laying himself back down atop the soft duvet that covers his bed. “I’ve had enough kingly duties for one day.” 

There’s shuffling in his wardrobe again before a hand is brushing his hair from his forehead. Wendy stands over him again, a gentle look of pity on her face, and Mark hates the fact that her eyes feel just as kind as his mother’s used to. 

“No one becomes a great leader overnight,” She whispers, thumb stroking over his temple. “You’ll get better.”

Mark swallows hard and shuts his eyes. “I shouldn’t have to.” 

A sigh sounds from above him before footsteps leave the room and the door shuts gently behind Wendy as she disappears. Mark doesn’t want to open his eyes, because as long as he’s awake he has things to do. More specifically, a kingdom to navigate at the ripe age of 20. 

Mark finds it odd that he’s being thrust into a life of leadership before he’s done the things that other boys his age have already, such as getting drunk, having his first kiss, or whatever else teenagers might do. 

Mark isn’t quite sure how he can run a kingdom when he hasn’t even learned the ropes of adolescence yet. 

Mark’s solution to facing such internal dilemmas is usually to ignore them, but this one feels far too overwhelmingly large to just shove to the back of his brain. Sitting on his shoulders is the weight of an entire kingdom which will be looking to him for guidance and strength when the time comes. A kingdom filled with people of all kinds; children whose futures depend on him, sick and injured who need his help, families who need safety and reassurance that their lives are in good, steady hands. 

Mark has always been clumsy, and his head starts to ache as the metaphorical pressure on his shoulders pushes harder and harder. 

He screws his eyes shut tighter, listening as Wendy passes his room again with her shoes clicking on the tiles and her soft voice travelling through the hallway. The early day sunlight bleeds over him and warms his skin, and Mark rolls onto his side to face the window that overlooks the back garden. He doesn’t open his eyes, just lets the light cradle him like a pair of familiar arms as he sinks into the mattress.

Mark dreams of the garden. He dreams of being five, and racing across the field with no shoes on, giggling as his brother chases after him. They’re playing a game, Taeyong holding a toy sword and Mark a shield, their laughs floating up into the air to get carried away by the summer breeze. 

With a leap, Taeyong tackles him, his body colliding with Mark’s and sending both of them to the ground with a thud. The grass tickles Mark’s skin as he stares up at his brother who has a playful grin on his face, his knees on either side of his hips. 

He looks happy and so young. The years of stress and pressure have been erased from his face, which is round and rosy-cheeked. His eyes are wide and gentle, and the scar beside the one hasn’t faded yet, still a bright, healing pink against his skin. He lifts the sword and pretends to plunge it into Mark’s stomach, drawing a squeal from the younger before they both break out into giggles again. 

Mark shuts his eyes and when he opens them this time he’s seven, and he’s swinging on the little wooden swing his brother made, attached to a tree next to the creek at the back of the garden. He doesn’t play with Mark much anymore, so he’s left to push himself higher and higher as the water sparkles beneath his feet. He was always too afraid to jump off, but he imagines the way it feels to soar for just a few seconds before landing safely on the ground. 

He can’t control himself as he slides from the swing and the wind whips through his hair, the ground rushing up to meet him scarily fast. He hits it, and his eyes open to a dark room. 

He knows the room. It belongs to his parents, the large four-poster bed sitting near a massive window that’s been covered by deep purple drapes. The room seems empty, but he knows it’s not. He can hear what sounds like someone sniffling, and his feet patter across the floor towards the bed. He’s wearing his nicest robes which hang a little too loose on his small frame, and he nearly trips as he makes it to the bed. Upon peering around it he finds his brother sitting on the floor, heels of his hands against his eyes. 

He’s 11, and like Mark and their father, has just said goodbye to his mother for the last time. 

Mark glances back at the door but it’s no longer there, and the room seems to have shrunk to trap both of them together in the small space between the bed and the window. Mark, quiet as can be, sits down next to him. Taeyong lifts his head and looks over at Mark, his face wet and his jaw shaking. 

He looks small, much smaller than Mark has always seen him, and he doesn’t say a word. He just stares at Mark with the saddest of eyes as his face slowly changes. It grows and ages until he’s no longer looking at Mark like a brother, but more like an enemy. An obstacle that makes his strong features twist up in a scowl, sending fear rushing through little Mark. 

He doesn’t like the way Taeyong looks at him now, and he’s stuck watching as his lips curl back as if he’s going to yell, brows lowered and eyes dark. Mark lets out a cry before the room seems to shatter around him and everything goes dark.

Mark sees nothing fun—nothing bright and sunny or playful around him. He can’t help but wonder if there is still beauty to be found when everything seems to be blanketed in darkness. Little Mark’s world comes crashing in. 

He shoots up in bed, the remnants of his cry tumbling from his lips as his chest stutters. 

He gasps in a breath before blinking the sleep out of his eyes and wiping his hands over his face as if wishing to rub the memories out from underneath his skin. The sun seems to have travelled away from his window, casting shadows over the garden instead and leaving him in a cool shade that makes him miss the hug it once provided. Still weary from sleep, he stares outside for a few moments and tries to regain his senses, before he turns his head and spots a figure standing by his desk.

The shriek he lets out is admittedly embarrassing, and his palm slaps over his mouth as Taeyong scoffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes. 

“I see you’re taking your responsibilities quite seriously.” He says, his voice cool and clearly condescending. 

Mark scowls at him before kicking his legs over the edge of the bed and standing. “I took a nap, sue me.” 

“I think execution is better suited.” Taeyong drags his fingers over the ornate chair that sits at Mark’s desk, and Mark can’t quite tell if he’s joking or not. 

He thinks the memory of a playful brother gives him a daring high because as he passes him he provides two pats to his chest and states, “Better wipe down the guillotine.”

To his surprise, Taeyong scoffs again and rolls his eyes, a tiny hint of a smile on his lips. “You welcome death surprisingly well.”

Mark shrugs. “No responsibilities when I’m six feet under.”

“Well, unfortunately, you aren’t dead.” Taeyong’s voice returns to normal and Mark feels a shiver travel up his spine. 

The idea that his brother used to be his best friend is short-lived, and he’s brutally reminded that he is now nothing more than a burden. Or perhaps competition. 

“What do you want?” Mark asks, realizing that he must have come to his room for a reason other than scaring the wits out of him. 

Taeyong seems to take a moment to produce his next words, which come out low and almost secretive. “Father would like to speak with you.”

Mark nearly jumps from his skin. “He’s _awake _?”__

__“Apparently so.”_ _

__He wastes no time springing into action, a grin growing on his face as he swings out of the room and leaves Taeyong behind. He immediately realizes he isn’t wearing shoes when his socks slide on the godforsaken marble floors and he loses his balance, nearly toppling to the ground._ _

__Luckily, he hears a familiar gasp before a pair of arms catch him and keep him steady. He looks up to find Wendy staring at him with widened eyes, a basket of fresh linen discarded on the floor behind her._ _

__“Where on earth are you going in such a rush?” She hoists him back up properly with a huff, blowing her dishevelled bangs from her face._ _

__“Father has asked to see me,” Mark tells her excitedly, feeling somewhat like a child once again._ _

__“How wonderful.” Wendy adjusts his shirt and smooths down his unruly hair. “Please don’t break your neck before you even get to him.”_ _

__Mark nods rapidly before pulling away and continuing his race down the hall towards a pair of tall wooden doors that lead to the King’s chambers. He hasn’t seen his father much at all these days, let alone awake, and he finds his heart thundering against his ribcage like a midsummer storm as he reaches his room._ _

__His hand wraps around the door handle and he pulls one open, sticking his head in and calling out, “Father?”_ _

__Immediately a figure rushes over and shushes him, his finger pressed to his lips and his eyes blown wide. “Your majesty, I must ask you to be quieter.”_ _

__The castle apothecary stands before Mark, a nervous look on his face as he glances back into the room before gesturing him inside._ _

__“My apologies, Doyoung.” He steps in and nods at the man who seems to be chewing his cheek quite intensely._ _

__“It’s quite alright, I understand your enthusiasm. I must warn you, however, that he is still…”_ _

__“Hard to look at?” Mark finishes and watches the way Doyoung swallows hard before pursing his lips._ _

__“He’s not in good condition, your majesty. I wouldn’t have allowed visitors otherwise, but I am no one to deny the king’s orders.”_ _

__With that, he turns on his heel and heads for the bed, which Mark knows has been housing his sick father for weeks on end. It’s dark in the room, the curtains drawn and a single candle lit on either side of the bed. Just enough light for Mark to see him._ _

__“Father…” It comes out softer this time as if the words were swallowed up by the dread quickly creeping up his throat._ _

__In front of him is no longer the strong, lively leader Mark saw growing up. What lays in that bed is nothing but a shell. Essentially a corpse with sickly grey skin and sunken features that look straight out of a nightmare. His head turns, face unshaven and lips so dry that they’ve begun to crack and scar and Mark’s stomach churns._ _

__The man blinks once before a hand that’s all bone lifts shakily and reaches out in his direction._ _

__“Minhyung,”_ _

__Mark can’t move at the sound of a quiet, raspy voice that feels nothing like his father’s used to, so deep and strong and warm. Everything about the man feels cold._ _

__Dead._ _

__A hand touches his back as Doyoung urges him forward, forcing him to stumble into action and meet his father at his bedside. Instinctively, he slips his hand into his and feels the way it holds no strength or warmth of its own. Fingers curl around him weakly and he lowers himself to his knees, biting his tongue to keep his eyes from welling up._ _

__“Minhyung,” His father repeats, and Mark nods quickly as he sucks in a quick breath._ _

__“Yes, I’m here.”_ _

__“I know,” He says, his thumb rubbing over Mark’s hand slowly. “You’re a good boy. Always listened well.”_ _

__“Thank you, father.”_ _

__Mark’s excitement from the hallway dissipates as fast as it appeared, the pure helplessness of the man who was always the epitome of power sending him right back down to earth. He gives his hand a little squeeze and waits for him to say something else. Instead, he just stares, and it feels so vacant and cold._ _

__Mark doesn’t look back at him, just stares at the matching rings on their fingers._ _

__“You look just like your mother.”_ _

__“Oh.”_ _

__“She was beautiful, Minhyung. Take that as a blessing.”_ _

__Mark has had that comparison made hundreds of times, he thinks. His entire life he would hear about how he had his mother’s soft eyes, or her high cheeks, or her thick, dark hair. When he was younger he never thought twice about it—a child is supposed to look like their parents. But as he grew older and the memories of his mother grew weaker and hazier, he cherished the pieces of her that she left behind in him. It was like the heavens had decided to not take all of her, and Mark was left with the ability to look in a mirror and turn his head a certain way to catch a glimpse of the woman he loved most._ _

__“I do,”_ _

__“You’ve always been so wise. So ahead of your years.”_ _

__“Are you sure you’ve got the right son?” Mark jokes lightly, and his father tries to laugh but it comes out more like a pitiful cough._ _

__“Minhyung, do not ever doubt yourself.”_ _

__Mark catches his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing anxiously as he debates whether or not to unleash his feelings on his father at such a time. In no way does he plan on trying to convince him to change his decision, but he figures there’s no harm in saying he’s scared._ _

__“Father…” He starts, and suddenly Mark feels like he’s seven again and has just found out that his father has entrusted an entire kingdom to him upon his demise._ _

__He had told Mark that he had no plans of dying soon, but whenever it did happen he would be the one to take his place on the throne. Not Taeyong—the eldest heir._ _

__“I don’t know if I can do this.”_ _

__“Do what?”_ _

__“Be you.”_ _

__“Oh, Minhyung. I am not asking you to become me. I am simply asking you to take my place. You have grown into a strong, wonderful young man and I know that you will be a wonderful leader no matter how you choose to rule.”_ _

__Mark’s eyes begin to sting, but he won’t let himself cry in front of his father._ _

__“You seem to be the only person in this castle who thinks of me that way.”_ _

__His father lets out a low, breathless chuckle as his thumb stops moving for just a moment. Mark holds his breath as he takes one in, before he finally dares to look at him._ _

__Hidden beneath everything, he can still see the man he knows. The man who held his hand, and ruffled his hair, and gave him the gentlest of smiles._ _

__“Little prince,” He whispers, and it sounds so comforting to Mark’s ears. “Remember that even when the whole world turns away, the sun and the moon are always with you. And they rise and set, bringing a new day with them.”_ _

__Mark just nods quickly, squeezing his hand again._ _

__“Be good, Minhyung.”_ _

__Mark leaves the room with tears in his eyes and a kiss lingering on his knuckles._ _

__Unfortunately, the thought of his father can’t linger long as he turns the corner and collides with a strong chest, making him stumble back a few steps before hands latch onto his shoulders to keep him upright._ _

__Taeyong tsks. “You must be more careful. I saw the poor maid save your neck earlier.”_ _

__Mark jerks out of his grip. “I’m fine.”_ _

__“What did he say to you?”_ _

__“That’s none of your business.”_ _

__Taeyong’s face curls up in an instant, and Mark nearly flinches at the sight alone. Clearing his throat, he stands up properly and smooths out his robes, staring right back at his brother instead. The playfulness from his bedroom is long gone, and everything is back to the way it always is. Hostile and tense is the environment in the castle most days, and Mark has grown quite accustomed to it over the years._ _

__“Don’t speak to me like that.” Taeyong deadpans, and the look of authority on his face nearly makes Mark believe that he’s in charge._ _

__Except he isn’t._ _

__“I will speak to you however I please.”_ _

__Taeyong tightens his jaw and seems as if he’s going to say something else, but he visibly bites his tongue and heaves in a breath through his nose. Mark stands his ground as if his father’s hand is there on his shoulder and making him feel bigger and braver than he actually is._ _

__“Now, did you need something?”_ _

__Taeyong takes a moment before nodding promptly and releasing his jaw. “Yes. Come with me.”_ _

__Mark knows where they’re going as soon as Taeyong makes a turn for a stone staircase that leads to a hallway lit only by a few torches that line the walls. He still follows, his brother’s footsteps echoing through the empty corridor as Mark grows more and more confused. He stops when he reaches the top of the staircase, Taeyong a few steps below, and clears his throat._ _

__“Why are you taking me to the dungeon?”_ _

__Taeyong doesn’t answer, just keeps walking and forces Mark to follow him with his socks sliding on the stone steps. It’s substantially darker when they reach the bottom, and the door ahead of them is made of heavy iron and secured with three different locks. Mark watches the way his brother effortlessly removes them, before using all of his weight to shove the door open and reveal a dimly lit room separated into cells by rusted iron bars._ _

__Mark has only been in the dungeon a handful of times, but it’s just as depressing and frankly foul-smelling as he remembers._ _

__It’s nearly empty as well, only two cells occupied. One holds a middle-aged man who was imprisoned a mere few days ago on a disorderly conduct charge (what Mark believes was a drunken rampage), and the other holds Lee Donghyuck._ _

__“What the hell are we doing down here?” Mark hisses, scrunching up his nose at the smell of mildew that invades his senses._ _

__Taeyong leads Mark to a chamber near the end, which he can see houses a sleeping boy who’s still covered in dirt. As they stop outside his cell he stirs, sitting up atop a mattress near the corner of the cramped space._ _

__“What do you want?” He sneers lazily, scratching at his messy hair before leaning back against the wall._ _

__Mark doesn’t understand how anyone is capable of staying down here, as the air is already becoming heavier and making him feel like he can’t breathe. He subconsciously tugs at the collar of his shirt as he stares at the boy, trying not to show his discomfort with his surroundings. Donghyuck stares right back with nothing but hate in his eyes._ _

__“The king has informed me of a task,” Taeyong speaks finally, and both Mark and Donghyuck make a sound of confusion. “That requires both of your knowledge and expertise.”_ _

__“Me?” The two others say in unison, and by some miracle, Taeyong chuckles._ _

__“The king spoke of a treasure—something is hidden for Mark to find and take as his own.”_ _

__“Why me?” Mark interrupts, and Taeyong’s words come passively._ _

__“Surely you can’t be surprised. You are next in line to the throne.”_ _

__“Well,” Donghyuck calls from his cell. “Carry on, then.”_ _

__With a nod, Taeyong continues his explanation, a little mockingly. “He has asked that you travel to a neighbouring kingdom, where you are to _discover your fate _.”___ _

____Mark’s lips part slowly as if he wants to speak—to ask what any of this means—but his throat feels dry and his chest feels tight from the heavy air. (and Donghyuck beats him to it.)_ _ _ _

____“What does this have to do with me?”_ _ _ _

____“You are to be his companion.”_ _ _ _

____“What?”_ _ _ _

____“You’re smart, cunning, and strong. You know how to get yourself out of trouble—most times—and it will be your duty to protect the prince on this journey.”_ _ _ _

____“No way! I’m not some pet.”_ _ _ _

____“If you refuse, your sentence will be lengthened. Greatly.”_ _ _ _

____Taeyong is stern with his demands, and though Mark still doesn’t understand what he is to look for, the idea of doing one last thing in his father’s name is incredibly enticing. He wants to follow his words, find his prize, and do something to make his father proud._ _ _ _

____Donghyuck is arguing with Taeyong when he finally brings his attention back to reality, a swelling of excitement in his chest. He glances between his brother and the prisoner before them, and he clears his throat. The eyes in the chamber go to him, and Mark stands a little straighter._ _ _ _

____Like a king should._ _ _ _

____“Then it’s settled. We’ll do it.”_ _ _ _


End file.
